


birds of a feather

by dharma22



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Bitterness, Complicated Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Sibling Rivalry, Smut, Strained Friendships, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma22/pseuds/dharma22
Summary: Malcolm Hawke had three children. Two had his talent for magic and one had the misfortune of being born insignificant. Bethany was Carver's champion, the one person who made him feel like he wasn't a second thought, but she's gone now. And now he's stuck in the shadow of his sister, Siggy Hawke. Where he once shivered in the cold of it, he currently keeps himself warm with the growing anger of being relegated to the "baby brother". It's easy to blame Siggy, but as time goes on, he finds he can strike out on his own in small ways. He can have a life separate from his sister. He can become his own Hawke. Family is hard, it always has been and always will be. But it takes distance and isolation, maybe a few sweet words from a lover, to see that it's worth it to have it.
Relationships: Bianca Davri/Varric Tethras, Carver Hawke/Merrill, Fenris/Female Hawke, Isabela/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	birds of a feather

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my latest endeavor. It took me forever to string together and it's not my usual mammoth text block. I wasn't really in any rush to finish this, I was more focused on getting a feel for it, and quite honestly...I've reached that point in my writing where I can pretty definitively say, "yeah, this is for me and me alone" and appeasing the masses is cool but it's not my only drive anymore. I think taking a step back and no longer immersing myself in the fandom has made me realize that I don't really care about what others want or like so long as I'm happy with it and I enjoy it?   
> I just finished DA2 and had an absolute blast with it and I'm sad I couldn't write this alongside it but...y'know. Anyways. I'll be diving into my Solavellan fic after this goes up and don't expect a quick update. After being away from it for so long, it'll take some time to get a proper feel for it again. Plus I'm making some moves in my life and while I don't want to plan ahead for something that very well might not happen, I do want to put it out there that there's a very real chance that my schedule will be all sorts of whack? Quite honestly, the rest of my projects might just be kept VERY close to my chest for awhile. Depending on how I feel, the following chapters for this work and all my other ongoing works might never see the light of day and will just be for shits and giggles. OKAY now that that's all out of the way, enjoy!

To most, the silence could have been deafening. So quiet it could’ve thundered through your ears and drove you mad. Not for Carver. It wasn’t perfect, desolate silence that came with  _ total  _ stillness, but it was the kind of silence that Carver could hunker down in comfortably. The scrape of a fork as it chased a rogue hunk of duck across the plate was preferable to the irritating, ceaseless tap of Siggy’s anxious foot-bouncing. By a landslide. Anytime his sister was required to sit, whether it be for a split second or hours, her foot would bounce and the sound of it would crawl into his ears and scratch at them. Dinner brought out a certain type of vigor in the habit.

Tonight, however, there was a notable absence of the foot bouncing at dinner tonight. Notable absence of Siggy herself. The reprieve was oh so welcome. As of late, his sister was suffocating. She treated him like anyone else — perfectly capable and grown enough to make their own direction, but only on their own time. Not hers. Siggy was bossy, always had been. Compound this with the expectation of keeping everyone afloat riding on her shoulders like a gleeful child...her ego had grown considerably over the past year. Her current level of bossiness was growing to be too much for Carver to handle. He was beginning to chafe substantially. It wasn’t anything new, the chaffing or his irritation at it. But over the course of the previous year, it had slowly grown to an unbearable smolder of resentment and irritation. 

Mother and Gamlen would never understand. Mother would always see Siggy as her headstrong and daring little girl. Gamlen would see Siggy as...that was currently unknown, but Carver was certain he would always fret over her in his own way. Neither of them could parse his reveling in her absence, couldn’t fathom that she was competent on her own and didn’t require her brother to drag her back home in the dark. Mother was more adjusted to this. Siggy wasn’t necessarily wild, but she did operate on her own schedule. Still, a lingering sense of worry and the worst possible scenario always stood with a firm grip on her shoulder. Gamlen, on the other hand, was almost always up the wall about her being late to dinner. 

Carver sat there, thoroughly enjoying his piece of fat duck — purchased from an adequate enough butcher in Lowtown with money he himself had earned — and seriously contemplated eating Siggy’s portion of dinner. He was unbothered, relaxed, and quite sure of his older sister’s ability to take care of herself.

The rest of his family did not feel that way. Every passing second, the vein encroaching up Gamlen’s temple grew more prominent. He stabbed at a poor kidney bean rather aggressively, practically threw the fork in his mouth, and nearly tore his teeth out to rip at the bean. Mother was the divine picture of a perfect lady. Face impassive, posture stiffly erect, and bites slow and controlled. He hid his smile at the duality of the two behind his mug as he took a swig. 

“Your girl is too spirited for her own good,” Gamlen finally spat.

There it was.

Gamlen had reached his limit. Siggy’s habitual tardiness to dinner wore his nerves to the pulp. As much as Carver didn’t mind the void she left at the table, it was endlessly amusing to see Gamlen huff and puff. 

Mother dabbed at the corners of her mouth like a proper lady, trying to preserve what gentility she had left. This habit was a newfound one that had expanded over their year in Kirkwall. Back home, in Lothering and wherever else they were, Mother didn’t have that air. He hadn’t even known she’d come from money until fairly recently. Now that she was here, not having to break her back tending to farm animals and slaving away in a small house, she seemed to be regaining the air of her old ways. What a strange metamorphosis it was.

“I raised all my children to be independent. Nothing wrong with that,” said Mother.

Gamlen scoffed. “This isn’t  _ independence.  _ This is plain  _ rude,  _ Leandra,” he grunted. “You put in all this effort for dinner and she can’t even show up.”

“She always does,” Mother counters. 

“Well after everyone else!” 

“Why does it bother you? Not like it’s that big of a headache. You’re usually passed out at the bottom of a bottle by the time she comes back.” Carver said. 

Gamlen shot him a glare that was emphatically Mother’s glare. That one thick and deep wrinkle right in the center of where the brows came together, the slight downward tilt of the head, the uncanny focus. It must’ve been an Amell thing, that glare. On numerous occasions, Carver had been on the receiving end of that glare from both Mother and Bethany. He’d always seen more of Mother in Bethany than father, but being able to see the echoes of certain features resonating in Gamlen’s face, Bethany was undeniably more Amell than Hawke. Most definitely. And Carver himself favored father more, though he could see now he was a healthy blend of the two. Siggy was almost completely father. 

“Watch your mouth, boy!” Gamlen exclaimed.

“I’m quite able to discipline my son myself, brother.” Leandra reminded him. Her steely grey eyes turned to him. There was that solid, unrelenting force in her eyes that screamed  _ mother  _ that had always cowed the Hawke children back into line. But there was also that plump bit of tenderness there as well. As close to the surface as the command in her eyes. “Carver, making light of your uncle’s  _ unsavory _ habits is unbecoming.” she informed him.

Carver snorted. “You say that like I want to be  _ becoming _ ,” he muttered under his breath. 

Mother undoubtedly heard him, she heard  _ everything,  _ but being a mother meant being able to pick your battles. Dying on every hill was a sure way to exhaust oneself.

“Your sister is a pretty girl. You know what happens to pretty girls in the thick of night, don’t you? Or were quaint villages in dog country the only places in the world where women are safe?” Gamlen persisted.

Mother sighed, as did Carver.

“I assure you, uncle. Siggy isn’t a helpless maiden in need of rescuing. She’s out with her...crew tonight,” Carver guaranteed him.

“Crew?” Gamlen asked, as if Siggy traveling with company was the second coming of the Maker.

“Yeah,” Carver exhaled. “Varric, Aveline...that Warden mage, and-”

“Don’t say it!” Mother shouted.

The look in Gamlen’s eye confirmed that he shared the sentiment. 

Yet another smile graced Carver’s lips, though this time, he made no effort to hide it. Siggy’s mabari was a massive point of contention that he thought somewhat resolved ages ago, but found to flourish brilliantly here in their new home. The dog’s name was...colorful. Father had come home one day and from out behind his back, he produced a small mabari puppy that took to Siggy in an instant. She, having been a bratty and devious teenager, promptly declared his name to be Ser Dick. Father had no issues with it, quickly latching onto the name and proudly standing but it. Mother...Mother was another story. From day one, she fussed and  _ fussed  _ over Ser Dick, claiming his name was an insult to all who heard it and levying threats against Siggy to change it on the daily. After a few months, Mother relented, unlike Siggy who very valiantly and loudly called ‘Ser Dick’ all the time in the presence of the woman. Mother was inventive, however. She worked around calling the dog by his name, only ever referring to him as ‘Ser Richard’ or ‘Ser.’ Much like calling him by his name bothered Mother, Mother’s refusal to say his name and call him by another one completely riled Siggy up. 

Ser Dick was a point of bonding for Carver and Siggy. Together, they would taunt their mother with him, giggle madly when it worked, and dash away together when Mother would whirl with her face contorted in stern anger. 

“What?” he begged innocently. “Ser Dick?”

Mother frowned, eyes burning into him as Gamlen rubbed his forehead and groaned. 

“Must you?” Gamlen asked.

“I think I must.”

“Go find your sister, please, Carver,” Mother requested after she overcame his crass language. “It worries your uncle.”

As expected, his jaw practically unhinged and fell to the floor in a dramatic fashion. After his initial shock at the request, he scolded himself for being shocked at all. This was typical; Carver’s entire purpose of existence was to tend to the messes of his sisters. That’s how Mother saw it, anyway. Fighting it was futile, an effort that would leave him more tired and hopeless than before it was ever started. To dwell on being torn from the juicy duck breast on his plate, the comfortable warmth of the main room, the easy quiet…

With an exaggerated drop of his utensils, the sound of them clattering to the plate punctuating how he felt perfectly, he stood, grabbed his sword and fastened it about his hips, and contemplated a coat briefly before he decided against it and ventured out into Lowtown. He felt the eyes of his family on his back as he left, Mother saying something to uncle in a low voice before he slammed the door shut. 

He was met with the customary smell of Lowtown — oily smoke choking you on its way down into your lungs mixed with a faint smell of piss. The piss was subtle. Say what you will about Lowtown, it wasn’t anything like Darktown, at least in terms of smell. A shiver ran up his spine as he recalled the acrid, foul smell of the seedy underbelly of the city.

The shiver was not just a product of the thought of Darktown, but the cold bite in the air. Lowtown had a reputation for being far draftier than anywhere else in Kirkwall, especially at the onset of the colder seasons. He regretted not bringing his coat along, but turning back now to poke his head in wasn’t an option. 

Mother’s request for him to find Siggy was mad, he realized. His sister could be  _ anywhere  _ in the city and yet he was expected to drag her back home before she would have naturally returned? 

“Astounding logic, Mother,” he muttered under his breath.

Lowtown streets, in the beginning, had been a hellish maze to navigate. All of Kirkwall had been. He went from open fields to cramped streets with towering buildings of stone. To say it was a steep learning curve was an understatement. Of course, the year he’d been in Kirkwall had been enough to adjust him to the winding, convoluted streets, but he still found himself lost from time to time. It was infuriating. On this particular night, the streets seemed to be darker than usual and the low visibility paired with his haze of frustration and the fact that most everything in Lowtown looked the  _ exact fucking same from everything else,  _ Carver wandered somewhat aimlessly for a time. 

He had a general sense of where he was thanks to the unmistakable figure hanging upside down, bound and blindfolded, just outside one of the few well lit areas in the whole of Lowtown. The Hanged Man. He investigated the tavern, hoping his search wouldn’t be this long drawn out thing and Siggy would be at a table, but she was not. Asking around proved as equally inconclusive. Corff had not heard or seen anything to help him.

_ Blast it all,  _ he thought. Standing outside the Hanged Man, he tried his hardest to avoid venturing beyond Lowtown. He racked his brain trying to think of places she could be, if anything she’d said before departing could’ve helped him in his search...Somewhere along the line, he started walking, his feet carrying him without any other input. The entire time, he was close to seething in anger. He wasn’t some glorified errand boy, easily torn away from his own business to serve Siggy in some way. He was a man now, had been for over a year now! Yet Mother wouldn’t treat him as one, not in his own way. Mother entrusted him with responsibility and the like  _ only  _ on her terms and those were usually to satisfy Siggy in some way. And Siggy...his sister thought his time was her plaything, his sword and life endless sources of amusement. Contrary to popular belief, he did in fact have a life outside his insular family unit. Could they not fathom that Carver wanted to exist apart from them at times? That he could lead a life separate from what they wanted from him? 

Bethany understood. She always had. He didn’t need to say it for her to know. In tense moments when the strain of his family was too much, Bethany would seek him out. Approach him slowly and softly, stand there at the edge of his vision and wait for him to address her. It was always on his terms…

With all his might, he reared his leg back and kicked at a rock. It went flying through the air, bouncing off the side of a building, and hitting a barrel with such force it knocked it over. Pain shot up his foot, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. 

Kicking a rock wasn’t the act of rebellion it needed to be, but it  _ was _ gratifying. He stalked about for a bit, scowling and hoping his face was mean enough to scare off anyone who saw him as easy prey. When his anger cleared, so did his eyes, and with this newfound clarity, he saw that an unsavory gang were eyeing him a little too closely. Siggy said to never make eye contact with people very plainly debating on whether or not to jump you, but Carver seemed to have forgotten her solid piece of advice. He glared at them as he walked by, trying to decide if they were actually eyeing him in  _ that _ way before taking action. 

Before her death, Bethany had made the comment, as kindly as she could put it, that Carver was predisposed to being a bit of an ass, what with regularly flying off the handle for no good reason. After her death, he made it a vow to work on his temper, to be a version of himself that his twin could be proud of, and he felt like he was making a decent amount of progress...should no one antagonize him. 

_ Just keep walking,  _ he told himself, inhaling deeply to restrain from saying something. Keeping his head down and walking on was ineffective, unfortunately. Once he passed the group and had made it a little ways beyond the little alleyway they’d infested, it became very apparent they were following him. His pulse spiked as it dawned on him, hot adrenaline flooding his veins and filling out every inch of his body in greater volumes with every beat of his heart. He loved a good fight, sure. But he wasn’t a giant drooling moron. He knew that Lowtown alley shits were a different kind of breed, even more so with the ones who came out at night. And considering how there were at least four of them and one of him...they weren’t looking for a fist fight. They wouldn’t leave him be if he decided to flash his sword, fight back. 

His options were scarce but not entirely absent. While in the process of figuring out the best course of action, he heard a familiar  _ shrill cackle.  _ He could see her now, head thrown back and maw wide open as she spit out a laugh at some stupid joke of the dwarf’s. As irritating as it was, he was grateful to hear it. 

“Siggy!” he called, jogging off towards the sound of it. 

He encountered her and her group exiting the alienage, of all places, but that was an issue for later. Right now, he was glad to see her and use her as a means to avoid a fight. 

“My dear sweet brother!” Siggy exaggerated. Ser Dick greeted him with a bark, while the others managed a few ‘good evenings’.

His shadows got the message, saw he wasn’t one to be toyed with, and it would bother him later to know that it wasn’t his bulk alone that scared them away. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Varric said, smirking. “I would’ve thought you too busy punching out walls to take a stroll.”

Carver sneered at him. “Always a pleasure to prove you wrong, dwarf,” he spat. “I’m here to retrieve my sister.”

Siggy looked around expectantly, corner of her lip slowly rising in amusement to a joke only she was privy to. She patted herself down slowly. “Am I a child?” she asked. “I didn’t realize I needed to be retrieved like one.”

Her tone was that annoying one she took up when she found something funny or meant to tease. It made him roll his eyes so hard it spawned a headache. “Ha ha, very funny. Sometimes you’re bratty enough to be a child,” Carver mumbled. “Gamlen was worried about you, could hardly stand it. As usual, I’m the family bitch, sent to collect my  _ fully grown  _ sister.”

“The resentment practically rolls off of you,” Anders remarked.

Carver chose to ignore the mage. Coming from himself, there was no cure for a piss poor attitude. He knew that very well. Engaging with him would only worsen both their attitudes. 

Aveline was the only one of his sister’s crew he could stand, besides Ser Dick. She emerged from the fray, clapped him hard on the back, and offered him a smile. He tried hard not to stare at her armor. Issued by the city guard, bearing the emblem of the city…

“Good sport. It’s not ideal, hauling this one back in, but someone’s gotta do it. Family’s all we have, after all.” she informed him as if it wasn’t something he’d heard spewed from the lips of hundreds before. 

For once, he played along with it. His mood was already sour and engaging in an argument wouldn’t benefit him at all. If anything, everyone would see it as him throwing a tantrum fit for a toddler. He was infantilized enough without any effort of his own. 

Eventually Siggy relented, bidding her companions farewell, and turning to Carver with that fucking  _ smirk.  _ He glared at her.

“Please, Carver. It’s not like Mother held a knife to your throat and demanded you find me,” Siggy scoffed. “You’re old enough to tell her no.”

He wondered what he looked like from an outsider’s perspective. Could they see how profoundly the muscles of his jaw bulged? Could they how white his knuckles were as he balled them up into tight fists? It wouldn’t matter if they could. Unexpected was his upset. It wasn’t directed at Siggy, not really, but more at himself. She was right, like she often was, and it pissed him off to no end that she had a point he’d never even considered. In his head, it was easy to conjure up the image of him being perfectly in control . Architect of his own destiny, subject to his very own will. Leave it to Siggy to point out the flaws in that concept. 

If he was so in charge, why was he jelly in the hands of his family? If he was so head-strong, why was he in someone else’s shadow? He knew why. Answering it was uncomfortable, however.

“It’s not that simple,” he grunted. 

“If you say so,” Siggy sang.

They walked in relative silence for a time before he thought back to where he found her. “Why were you in the alienage?” he asked.

Ser Dick’s panting almost drowned out his words. 

“We’ve acquired a new friend!” Siggy explained eagerly. “We were helping her settle in.”

Carver groaned. “ _ Another  _ stray?” he begged. “Likes flies to shit, they are.”

Siggy laughed. “You forget that you’re part of the group too,” she reminded him. “Are you a fly to my shit?” His sister cringed as soon as the words left her mouth. 

“Very beautifully put, sister.”

She nodded and they both shared a smile. She could be infuriating, but she had her moments. 

It wasn’t until they were ascending the steps to Gamlen’s house when it came to him. The alienage, the new “friend”...

“Wait a minute,” Carver breathed. Siggy turned to face him. “ _ Did you find an elf?” _

The look on her face was open curiosity, eyebrows raised to an angle suggesting she couldn’t understand his clear hesitance. 

“Yes, and?” she wondered.

How fantastic she was at making things immeasurably worse for herself. It wasn’t enough that she outright passionately refused to be discreet, practically flaunting her staff to everyone they passed and casually throwing it around that she was a mage. It wasn’t enough that she agreed to accepting an apostate  _ who was on the run from both the Circle and the Wardens  _ into their shitty ranks. Now she had to invite an elf into this mess...if they didn’t already stick out like a whore in the Chantry, they surely would in no time. He wasn’t sure how they had evaded the ire of the Templars for so long, but with every passing day, his sister decided to push their luck further and further from the brink of salvation and appeared to do so with glee. At this point, he was the only person in the entire family who had a decent head of their shoulders. 

“Is that really the best idea? Who is she? You said you needed to settle her in.” Carver said.

Siggy swatted a stray strand of dark hair out of her face. “I like her,” she justified, like it was suddenly enough. It wasn’t. “Flemeth’s amulet came with a stipulation and her name is Merrill. Her prowess in battle is impressive, despite appearances. Who would’ve thought someone so small and delicate looking could be so wickedly talented in her spell crafting?”

“ _ Maker’s breath!”  _ Carver exhaled. It was as if the wind had been knocked from him. Another fucking mage? She’d lost it, she truly had.

“It’s amazing, I tell you. It’s all Dalish magic too. Which is, surprisingly,  _ vastly  _ different from the magic father taught me. I had no idea. Being so up close to it, in the heat of battle, it’s impossible not to notice how even how she conjures up her spells is-”

He couldn’t take her rambling any longer. She had a tendency to forget most people weren’t inside her head or circle of interest and once sparked into ignition, would babble with no end in sight. Sometimes he wondered if she liked the sound of her voice so much she just couldn’t resist using it to such an extent. Other times, he was certain she was just  _ that _ ardent about a topic that it flowed like water. Her utter lack of recognition for how thoroughly dangerous it was to invite an  _ elven mage who was also Dalish  _ to their little colorful table of...whatever they were was also painfully vexing. Had she lost her mind?

“I’m glad you find her magic unbelievable, but you’ll have to pardon me for shitting myself over how the Templars will not take kindly to you being in cahoots with an elven apostate, which is thrown on top of already having another apostate in the group,  _ plus  _ you yourself being an open apostate,” Carver said.

A headache was forming behind his eyes. There was no end in sight to this madness, forever perpetuated by his well-intentioned sister…

A hand fell on his shoulder , its grip gentle and reassuring. He looked up to meet his sister’s cool eyes swirling with maternal comfort. The same sort of comfort that was innate in their own mother. It could’ve been a natural thing, that comfort. Whether it be natural to women or older sisters, it did not matter. He fought hard to maintain his frustration and anger, but could not help but lean into the promise in her eyes. The promise wasn’t just in her eyes. It was everywhere. Since father’s death, Siggy had effectively taken control of the house and her guidance never failed them. Under her lead, they had faced adversity that was hard to fathom but had never once crumbled under it. Things would get messy, terribly so, and when things appeared lost, they pulled through. 

“Worrying is second-nature to you. It always has been,” she said softly. “It borders on rampant distress, quite honestly. But for once, trust that I know what I’m doing. Protecting you and Mother, even Gamlen, is why I do  _ anything.  _ I don’t want to live in a shithole the rest of my life, do you? I don’t want you to.”

Carver couldn’t hold her look anymore. His eyes dashed to the ground, focusing on his rough leather boots and honing in on a minor hole forming at the toe. 

“My family isn’t safe so long as we’re here in Lowtown. We need a cushion. A big fat velvety one in Hightown, complete with a title. That won’t happen if we consort with the usual filth,” she continued. “This expedition...it’s exactly what we need. We can’t do that if we have no money. You heard Bartrand.”

“And picking up random strays isn’t consorting with filth?” Carver retorted, wanting nothing more than to be defiant in the face of her sense.

She chuckled. “I don’t do business with anyone I don’t have a good feeling for. My intuition has never let us down, has it?” she questioned. 

The following silence meant she expected an answer.

“No,” he admitted.

“Right. The people we travel with have an... _ air  _ about them. Catalysts for greatness, if you will.” 

It sounded like a total crock of shit. He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, but it was nice to hear how genuine it was. 

“What crystal ball are you peering into?” he teased.

Siggy rolled her eyes. “Fine, not greatness. Just catalysts. For...big things.” she clarified. 

“Big things usually spell trouble, sister.”

With a massive groan, Siggy turned from him and ascended a few stairs before turning back to face him. “Expand your horizons, Carver. Pessimism is exhausting,” she said. “You know what lies just beyond trouble?” 

Another expectant silence accompanied by a quirked brow. 

He shrugged, truly not knowing. “Pain and suffering?” he threw out.

“Tremendous payoff,” she corrected. The second the words left her lips, she threw open the door to their home and waltzed right in. Mother’s relieved greetings and Gamlen’s disgruntled scoff poured out from the space.

Could she be right? Trouble being the precursor to a payoff he couldn’t dream of...As if he were in a trance, he climbed the rest of the stairs and joined his family, all the while his mind racing with the possibilities before him. 

-+-

Days passed and Carver kept himself busy in spite of his sister refusing to bring him along to conduct her business. He knew why. Siggy usually ditched him when she took on more...unsavory jobs, claiming his righteousness was brought out during these business dealings and she couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t argue that her conducting business with the shittier folk of Kirkwall, doing things he disagreed with completely, was a bit of a strain on him. So he appreciated her excluding him for once. 

He found a few jobs here and there to fill the time and bring in some coin. Though his tact for squeezing the most coin out of people wasn’t anywhere near as impressive as Siggy’s. Kissing ass wasn’t something that came naturally to him. Nor was it something he felt he needed to subject himself to. 

On the sixth day of his banishment, jobs dried up. No one in Kirkwall had any work for  _ him.  _ When people heard the name ‘Hawke,’ it wasn’t his face they conjured up. It wasn’t his deeds, his skill, his attitude. It was a name that carried weight but when he threw his name out, carefully enunciating  _ Hawke  _ so it was indisputably true, he’d get funny looks. The same question would almost always follow.

_ I thought Hawke was a woman? _

Then he’d explain the situation, informing them that she  _ was,  _ but he was her brother, just as skilled and effective, and perhaps even cheaper. It worked on a few people. Anyone with a pulse and a sword was their criteria and he found he didn’t really even need the sword for those jobs. The jobs requiring more brawn, offered more coin were promptly denied to him. Talk spoke to his sister’s abilities, not his. No one was willing to trust him with their sensitive little missions when the gossip only ever established him as a tag-along. 

No other option presented itself to him until he remembered what Gamlen had said a while ago. Something about the work at the docks never being done…

It was worth a try, unless he actually liked being useless and wasting an entire day. He made his way through the streets of Hightown, shrugging off the watchful glares of the city guard, and subtly listening to every bit of saucy gossip he passed. After what felt like an entire day in itself, he’d made the steep descent to the docks of Kirkwall, thankful to be free of the pomp of Hightown. The docks were their own little world, complete with an utterly unique group of people that were their own race at this point. Bizarre people hung around the docks. He couldn’t describe their nature other than just  _ what the fuck.  _ Dock folk, contrary to most everyone else in Kirkwall, weren’t all raging assholes who would knife you if you so much as thought in their direction. They were just strange. Beyond that. 

He asked around for awhile, roaming up and down the line of docks, knocking on doors. Nothing. Zilch. The cool, salty breeze rolling in from across the Waking Sea was beginning to nauseate him. That or the smell of fish guts and...hm. What was that? Stale food? He didn’t want to think about it. 

By late afternoon, his nerves were completely shot. Somewhere along the line, he’d made a tentative peace with the fact that the fruits of his labor were horribly shriveled and little more than dust. Typical. Admitting the truth of it didn’t make it any easier to tolerate. Making the trudge back to Gamlen’s house with nothing to show for an entire day was a pitiful thought. It was easy to let it consume him, that sense of failure. 

But he made it back, head hung low in a mix of shame and stewing frustration. To his surprise, the house was fairly empty, save for Gamlen puffing a pipe in his chair. They greeted each other and Carver almost passed without much more than that before curiosity overcame him.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“You say that like twenty people live here,” Gamlen retorted. “Your mother needed some fresh air — said something about the pipe smoke being too much for her lungs or some nonsense like that. Your sister is out.”

Carver frowned. “Out where? With who? She hasn’t been back since yesterday morning,” he explained.

Gamlen turned to him, a wicked edge dulled by familial teasing in his eyes. “Careful there, boy. It almost sounds like you care,” he teased.

It only deepened Carver’s frown and shot his nerves even worse. “I  _ do  _ care. A great deal. Siggy’s family.” he said.

“Sigfried…” Gamlen mumbled, using Siggy’s full name as a means to properly ponder her. She hated her full name. Hence why she went by Siggy. Hardly anyone adhered to that name, though, not fully. If she had her way, she would be Siggy Hawke day in and day out. But nearly everyone had their slip-ups when Sigfried made an appearance. “She came back while you were out, got a few things. She went out with the usual bunch. The dwarf, Aveline, and...that elf.”

_ Elf? _

Oh. The new one. The Dalish apostate. Merrill. He’d yet to meet her, even lay eyes on her. He was almost convinced she was a figment of some mass hallucination he thankfully didn’t share. He ditched his sword, removed his bracers, and went into the backroom he shared with his Mother and sister. Gamlen didn’t follow, by the mercy of Andraste, and it was in this private place he was able to begin to assuage his frustrations with a quick nap.

“Quick” as in fell asleep for hours, woke up only by the gentle jostling of someone who smelled faintly of soap. 

“Carver, wake up.”

Siggy. He should’ve guessed. He blinked away the fog of sleep and slowly sat up, mindful of his head as he slept on the bottom bunk of their bed. Before he could mutter a single syllable, Siggy was explaining things.

“Get dressed. Merrill’s invited us to dinner,” she said. She left before he could respond.

-+-

Merrill, much to his surprise, was real. Very real. But...she didn’t seem like she should be. Her ditziness was evident the second he laid eyes on her, as well as her discomfort in a human city. Beneath it all, Carver could sense an almost...other-worldly quality to her that wasn’t rooted in mysticism or spiritual. He couldn’t place it, his way with words was stupidly lacking, but it was there. 

Siggy had done her best to explain Merrill’s situation before they arrived. Something about her Keeper practically begging Siggy to take Merrill and Merrill never having lived among humans before now. There was a suspicious absence of a reason why the Keeper ditched the elf, but he would hold off on pestering her for now. 

When they had arrived, Merrill had greeted them with a friendly smile, larger than Carver deemed appropriate for people she didn’t really know, and ushered them in a bit awkwardly. Like she was playing at the motions she’d read in a book but it didn’t come naturally. He hadn’t been able to see much of her face, take in her features, with such a quick glance at her face, but her voice was sweet. Light and heavily accented. 

The space they entered was reminiscent of the hovel they shared with Gamlen, a little worse in some places, and significantly better in others. For the most part, it was far better kept than uncle’s place, even with Mother to clean up the bulk of the mess. It was about the same size as Gamlen’s place but had a more open feel, probably due to the fact that its only inhabitant was a small elven woman and not an entire family plus their dog. Aveline and Varric were already there, standing at the fireplace. Aveline with her awkward bulk, stood there holding her elbows with her massive hands. Varric was opposite to her, clearly in the midst of some bullshit fantastical tale of an event no one had ever heard of. There was a faint herbal smell in the air, almost roasted, along with the smell of rabbit stew. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until it hit him.

Merrill had walked off to finish preparing the meal and while Siggy was content to join Aveline and Varric by the fire, Carver was suddenly struck with a very odd, atypic desire to snoop. Not intrusively. More surface-level snooping than digging through her drawers. He slowly stalked the room, trying his best to look innocent enough. All the while, his eyes scanned the walls and floors, looking for anything of note to suggest who she was or something sentimental at least. Everything was lacking. He found that odd until he wrangled himself in by telling himself she’d only been in the city for about a week. Maybe a little over a week. Regardless, a dinky amount of time. 

A roar of laughter sounded behind him. He didn’t even look. Didn’t need to. That sound, that boisterous, rumbling sound could only be one thing. The mind-numbing harmony and Siggy and Varric’s laughter merging and creating this whole new sound of pure  _ deafening insanity.  _ They’d only known one another for about two months, but  _ Maker.  _ It was beyond cruel to let the two of them become so close. Two of the loudest people in all of existence, coming together to amplify one another’s loudness... 

Rolling his eyes, he came upon a dark corner where a single painting hung. Seeing as it was so dark, it was difficult to make out, but his need to know was intense. He came so close to it his nose was almost touching it. It looked like...he couldn’t be sure, but maybe it was a horse? With a mounted rider? Holding...a...Maker, what was that?

“Do you know if Anders is coming?”

Carver nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d been so consumed by figuring out just what the fuck the painting was that he didn’t see or hear her approach. He turned to face her, seeing the voice as belonging to that of Merrill. Being this close made him realize how he towered over her like some sort of ancient tree. His bulk in comparison to her was that of a tree too. He could see her more clearly now, though still it wasn’t perfect. She had crammed herself into the dark corner as well. He wanted to apologize for snooping but her eyes were massive and glittering like jewels. There wasn’t a hint of annoyance or displeasure in them, just a genuine question.

“Uh...Anders?” Carver repeated.

Merrill pursed her lips. “Yes. I don’t think he likes me very much. I don’t assume he’s coming then…” she spoke like she wasn’t speaking to him. “Stupid question.”

Carver eyed her, unsure of what to say. Finally, her head perked up and offered him a shy smile. “I haven’t got your name. I mean, I think I did. Hawke introduced us,” she said. “I’m Merrill. You’re Carver.”

He chuckled through the awkwardness of the exchange. “Yes, I’m Carver. Baby brother and insignificant speck of dirt to my sister,  _ Hawke, _ ” he said with a bit of venom. 

Merrill didn’t seem to pick up on it. If she did, she didn’t show it. “You’re quite big for a speck of dirt,” she giggled. “Maybe even the biggest speck of dirt I’ve ever seen!”

As she giggled away, Carver eyed her a little cautiously. He didn’t know what to say. But her face scrunched in laughter was endearing. Elves, he noticed, looked a little bizarre, slightly out of place no matter where they were. It was easy to see them as completely alien. He’d never had much interaction with them — Siggy was always the one to bridge the divide between any opposing forces. Elves always looked so serious, perhaps even mean. Merrill, however, looked much more docile. Her features seemed to be permanently at ease almost. And now, they were contorted in an expression he  _ knew.  _

“Yes, well, I meant as far as importance goes, it’s usually my sister that people gravitate towards. I’m surprised you even knew she had a brother,” Carver said.

“Oh, Hawke talks about you all the time. About her mother —  _ your _ mother — and uncle. It’s all so much fun! The stories…” Merrill beamed. 

He was curious. What had Siggy said to entice her so much? Heaving a massive sigh, he steeled himself against the definite embarrassment asking his question would entail. “Do I even want to ask?” he huffed. “What has she said?”

Merrill brought a hand to her mouth, fingers knotty with joints underneath taut skin and fingernails painted a dark color, and giggled more. “That time she convinced you that goats were actually abominations, that you two were the only people who knew the truth, and when you laid eyes on one-”

_ I pissed myself and ran crying to Mother. Yes, she would tell that story.  _ He cleared his throat loudly to end her sentence. “Yeah, not my finest moment,” he mumbled. Carver wanted to tug at his bracers, but his fingers found nothing to grasp. Mother was the one to suggest he ditch them, insisting they weren’t really all that dinner party appropriate. Her words carried a significant amount of weight, so he did as she said. Little did he know that the bracers had become somewhat of a comfort to him. A nervous habit — tugging at them — he’d taken up to busy his hands. Now he couldn’t. 

“I think it’s sweet!” Merrill exclaimed. 

He chuckled. “Not how I would have phrased it…” he said. Hands felt too awkward at his sides. He didn’t want to cross his arms — his arms were quite thick and his chest was strong, broad — and crowd her. Didn’t want to pop his fingers. Instead he rubbed at the back of his neck and he was...blushing? Merrill’s smile made him feel awkward. He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know if he should return it, or what. She was odd, such was evident in her rapid spit of words and mannerisms, but it was endearing somehow. Not massively endearing. It was kinda like an ugly puppy. She wasn’t ugly, not by any means, but she wasn’t conventional in any way whatsoever. 

In fact, Merrill was a touch...off-putting. Her presence was small but only because it felt massively contained. There was a faint scratching of something at the fringes of it, gouging deep claw marks into the air and not sitting very well at all. Despite how aliens her features were, they were strangely attractive, but again, there was that eerie scratch of something at the edges. Overall, he didn’t know what to  _ do  _ around her, what to say, how to feel. Doubtless he could figure it out either with her in such close proximity. 

Luck was on his side however. To an extent. When the awkwardness felt like it was about to boil over on his part (Merrill was babbling away nervously about a halla her clan had raised that might have very well been a demon) when a knock sounded at the door. Everyone stopped and Merrill just stared for a time at it, unsure of what to do. She looked to Siggy, who was looking at Varric, who was looking at the door and shrugging. Carver felt he was the only capable person in the room.

“You want me to get it?” he offered.

Merrill snapped out of her unsure fog and shook her head. “Uh, no! It’s my door. Well, not  _ mine _ but it’s in my house. On it? Yes...my door.” she said and scurried off.

It was only Anders, sadly enough. After his arrival, he didn’t come across Merrill again the entire night. At least, not in their previously personal way. They all sat down and ate, chatted away, had some good laughs. Carver eyed the elf the entire night for some reason. Maybe watching her would give away whatever it was about her that felt so off. She acted normally, as normal as a Dalish elf could among humans and a hairy dwarf, none of whom she was copiously acquainted with. 

When dinner concluded and the talk had worn out, everyone started to disperse. Siggy and him were the last to vacate, Siggy wanting to help Merrill in the clean up and eventually dragging Carver into it. As they were washing dishes, Siggy scrubbing away at a plate and slurring on about something, Carver dried the dishes and handed them off to Merrill. It was with the final pass of a plate that he caught sight of something on Merrill’s wrist. Thin little parallel lines...shiny and neatly assorted. All down her arm. 

He didn’t like them. Their careful order was disconcerting. Their presence was menacing. Carver caught her eye as he handed the last plate over. Something sparked between them and it sent a cold shiver down his spine. 

Green eyes gave way to emerald earth. Emerald earth slowly heaved rhythmically until it split open. Blood spilled out from the crevice. He felt like he was drowning in it.


End file.
